Artifice
by UnholyHelbig
Summary: In the year 1915, the infamous painter Beca Mitchell is commisioned by one of the richest men in America to capture the essence of his wife, Chloe Beale.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: This started out as a prompt that a lovely human gave me on Tumblr. People seemed to like it over there, so I extended it to a full-length fanfiction. I'm not sure how long it's going to be. It could be 10 it could be 20. It's up to when the story is fully told.**

 **The candle gave** a soft light to the crowded room. It was an arc of brilliant yellows that was cut with a horrid orange. However, the two colors worked together in an almost therapeutic way- one tiny combination of wax and wick giving a new life to the smallest room in the house.

That was no feat; the mansion was massive- coated in royal reds and cobalt blues. Nothing was spared when it came to Garret Beale. His family being ahead of all the trade on their small island- often taking a page out of the colonist's books and resorting to working with the men of the sea. Men who pillaged and brought back three times what this home was worth, only keeping a small portion of it to get the great law of the king off their flame-heated trails.

He was a handsome man, one with charming stature and the best-assembled clothes. Garret carried himself as such- royalty that didn't have a true bloodline, but enough to get everything he desired. Including the woman who stood with a hard stare in front of him. His deep Irish eyes were scanning over her figure, taking in the small stature that she carried. In fact, she reminded him of one of his men; not a nationally regarded painter.

She wasn't traditional, a pair of grey slacks and a black shirt hugged her figure, her eyes almost as dark as the midnight sky. Different colors of paint popped against the fabric; it made her look more like a street beggar than anything. But he had seen her work- seen the way she made use of the canvas and vibrant colors given to her. She was an artist, one like no other.

"I've seen your work," Garret said, quite dramatically as he leaned backward in his seat. It creaked and groaned in irony. A man with that much wealth should have a better place to sit. Maybe there was some semantic value, but the woman didn't question him. Instead, she lifted her chin, keeping her jaw tensed. "it's good."

"Just good?" She finally spoke, lifting her eyebrows. She leaned heavily on his hand-crafted desk, annoyance sparking within her stomach. He had more money than he knew what to do with; Beca running her fingers over the carved edge. It was done well. Better than his chair. "I mean no offense, Mr. Beale, but I have spent years studying under masters of artistic ability. You've pulled me from sea two weeks ago, for what? To design your walls?"

"Garret, please." He seemed unphased by her annoyance. The man knew that she wasn't happy, practically being pulled onto his family's property. She agreed, having to travel weeks to even get to the home. He offered up a project, one that peaked her interest. "If I wanted to have my walls recolored, I would not send word for you, Miss Mitchell, have a seat."

She drew in a soft breath, that skeptic look still in her deep stare. However, she eventually lowered herself into the chair pushing at the back of her legs. It was cold against her spine, making her swallow back a shiver uncomfortably. She waited patiently, despite questioning the man's privilege.

"My wife," he drew in a long breath, "She is quite exquisite."

Beca pressed her lips together in a frim line, instantly finding discomfort in the man's words. The whimsical look in his eyes solidifying just how much he cared for this unnamed woman. A small smile played at the corners of his expression. "I have yet to find someone who is talented enough to capture her beauty, which is why I called you."

"To paint her?" She eased out, "I paint what I feel, Mr. Bea- Garret." She corrected herself last minute. "There is no rhyme or rhythm to my work. It's near impossible for me to construct something when I feel nothing."

"Ah," he leaned forward, pressing his elbows against the desk. "I assure you, Miss Mitchell when you see my wife it will be highly unlikely that you won't feel a thing."

She gave him a jarring look. This man was quite clearly in love with this woman. So much so that he would invite a near stranger into his home to paint a fine picture of her. He had apparently done so before, many times, but was never happy with the outcome. Men, she was sure, men who drooled and didn't focus on the task at hand. Maybe that's why he hand-selected her. It couldn't' just be based on her work. He was a picky man.

"Are you insisting that I should _fall_ for this woman?"

"No, of course not." He waved his hand dismissively "I merely suggest that you form a bond with her before you even sit down to draw your first stroke. I'll pay for it all."

She lifted both brows, her head resting on her hand as she kept her fingers on her lips. She watched him carefully. "How so?"

"You can stay here, for as long as you need. I certainly have the room to spare." He stated plainly. "I just require that you spend time with my wife enough to know exactly what I need to be portrayed in her portrait."

"Her essence," Beca said as more of a statement than a question. "Not just the way she appears to the human eye."

It was interesting, something Beca had never done before. She was more into taking an edge of charcoal and sitting on the bow of a boat- sketching the way the waves ate at a flat-lined shore. But if this woman, whoever she was, took so much captivation from the world, then it would be a certain challenge.

"Do we have a deal, Rebeca?" He held out his pale hand, firm and strong.

"It's Beca." She took his grasp in hers, squeezing it with force. "And how could I say no?"

 **The warm spring** day changed the atmosphere in the usually dark house. There seemed to be no such thing as vibrant yellow, and unforgivable violent the night before. Beca having an uneasy sleep in one of the cold master bedrooms. It was far from comfortable- but still too fancy for her taste.

She woke up to a long ray of sun pressing against her gaze, birds chirping incessantly on the balcony. The stone balcony that was warmed by the very star that stirred her from her snooze. Regardless, she pulled herself from the clutches of the duvet, flinching as her bare feet hit the cold floor.

Begrudgingly, the talented artist slid on a pair of black pants and a loose fitting white shirt- not ever bringing more than that with her. She was fairly simple, hating the wire corsets and edged dresses of the time. They were too heavy and nice for her to paint in.

After lacing up a pair of brown leather boots, Beca made her way to the kitchen of the house. It wasn't too far, Garret had set the place up like a maze, although, she was at the edge of it. He gave her a half-hearted tour before fleeing from the property himself, claiming of some business he had to do. It was close to three in the morning, there was nothing he could busy himself with at that hour- but again, the woman didn't question his generosity.

She was close to the service quarters, residing in the same sector as the staff; she was staff. Having been hired for a job. To paint a wealthy man's wife in exchange for room and board. Part of her wanted to drag it out to its full extent, the other part hating the idea of spending one more minute in this place.

A sickly-sweet scent coated her lungs the moment she walked into the kitchen. It was large, set up and built like a room from the Spanish colonies; complete with deep yellow walls and terracotta tile with intricate suns and moons. Natural light seeped in from the grassy courtyard. It was good work, just like Garret had said, no expense spared for his family.

There was a woman leaning heavily over a mass of dough, she was tall, almost tall enough to bump her head on the chandelier, it hung low enough. Flour coated her fingers and clothing as a strand of dirty brown hair fell from the bun on her head, sweat forming on the woman's brow. She glanced up with deep charcoal eyes at the change in atmosphere.

"Oh!" She let her folders fall back, moving her eyes down her smock as a certain heir of heat pressed against her cheek. She reached for a dish towel. "I'm sorry Miss Mitchell, I didn't see you there. The dining room is right through the left corridor."

This woman, whoever she was, looked petrified. Like she had done something wrong against the curiosity of the young artist. Beca having noticed the same thing as she cocked her head to the side slightly- like a lost puppy.

"I'm not looking for the dining room." She stated simply from the doorway, trying not to scare the taller woman off. She was young, a simple look of amusement finding a way to her face. "You know who I am?"

"Of course." The stranger let out a soft breath, pushing the base of her palms into the moldable dough. "Mr. Beale often hires new artists to tackle capturing the enigma that is his wife. Many of them leave after the first few days. They're not very social."

Her slate eyes flicked up towards Beca, almost as if asking a question.

"I'm not either," She relented, a small smile on her lips. "But I know proper manners. I take it none of them have ever been back here?"

The woman grimaces, shaking her head as she struggles to blow the strands of stray hair from her gaze. She was becoming more comfortable with the conversation, with the presence of Beca in general. This was her kitchen, the woman knew not to overstep her boundaries.

"Never, Miss Mitchell." She held back a snort. "Wouldn't give the staff a second glance. A bit like Mr. Garret himself, if I might add."

"Beca is fine." The smaller girl said, shoving her hands in her pockets as the woman gave her a kind smile. She was different than the rest of them, actually making conversation and not attempting to rush the other way. She made eye contact and didn't hold her shoulders along the straight edge of a metal plate. Instead, she looked calm and collected. Strong, even. "And you are?"

"The chef." She answered on instinct.

"I figured that." Beca elicited a small laugh. "I meant your name."

"Oh," she stilled her movements, a genuine smile finding it's way to her flour specked face. "I'm Stacie Conrad."

The Conrad's were a fun group of people, a family name that Beca recognized almost immediately. She had met a man in the Pacific with the same surname, almost the same features as the chef that stood in front of her; a strong and seducing fella with a great sense of humor. If this woman was anything like her bloodline, Beca would get along great with her.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Stacie." Beca reached out to shake the woman's hand, reaching over the island, not hesitating a bit as the taller girl produced a powder covered one instead. She shrugged sheepishly- taking it regardless, Stacie's mouth falling open. "What's a little dirt?"

"Ah," She nodded softly "Miss Chloe will love you."

"Chloe huh?" The name rolled off of the artist's lips. It was the first time that she had actually heard it. She was always proclaimed as Garrets wife, or even the woman no one could really paint. But she hadn't met Beca yet. "Do you have any idea where she is?"

"You two haven't met yet?" Stacie raised a pointed eyebrow.

"I got in around three last evening," Beca explained, following that ashy stare towards the courtyard. It was a feat in its own; large hedges shielding the home from the outside world, lush green grass coating the full area, even a tall tree that produced bright fruit like that of a flame. Yellow and sharp. "Mr. Beale took me right to my quarters. After a tour, of course."

"A fine man that's proud of his home." Stacie grimaced, stepping away from her task as she rounded the large counter. She was just as tall as Beca though, both of them turning towards the large doors, leaning heavily against the island as they stared out into the yard, Stacie crossing her arms over her chest. "Every morning, you can find Miss Chloe out here."

"Reading?" The tiny girl still couldn't see much but the yard- assuming the woman of the hour was situated on the other side of the large tree, back against the bark as she perused some ancient form of literature.

Stacie scoffed. "You wish."

Beca threw her an odd glance before turning her attention back towards the area. Struggling to focus her hearing. She had been so focused before- not paying much stock to the little patch of outdoors. She noticed the taller woman first, at least she thought it was two women. Both in form fitted white suits- mesh masks over their faces. Fencing.

This woman who everyone raved bout was battling it out loudly with another, stepping gracefully against the grass, unlike any high-class girl that Beca had seen before. Both grunting as the metal of their foil's clanked with each fluid hit. The shorter of the two took a step out of bounds, her partner not sparring a second.

"Avertissement" Beca scoffed under her breath, shaking her head.

"Aubrey never plays fair" Stacie spoke without tearing her gaze away from the pair. "I'm sure she does it to keep Chloe on her feet. You fence?"

"I used to."

The two burst into laughter, muffled by the door that separated their spectators. Each woman panting with a purpose as the taller of the two removed her mask first- face red from the labor as she struggled to catch her composure. Stacie cocked an eyebrow at the blonde, cheeks maintaining their rosy complexion. "That's Miss Posen." She informed the small girl. "I swear, Chloe and she are joined at the hip. Protective, that one is."

Aubrey went to remove her chest guard, but Beca didn't have the attention span to continue watching the blonde. Instead, she focused on who she deemed to be Chloe. The mask was removed, a bout of coppery locks fell against her shoulders; she shook her head trying to free them from the heat of the island day. Her own chest was heaving, cheeks a bit red as she tucked her weapon beneath her arm. An angelic smile pressed close to her lips, a thin layer of sweat coating her collarbone.

"You're drooling, Beca."

"What?" The brunette snapped her mouth shut, dragging the back of her hand across her cheek, checking to make sure she was in fact, not drooling. Stacie was right, she could catch flies the longer she stood there, each passing second, she stared at Chloe made a heat press near her core. "I was doing no such thing."

"Hmm," Stacie nudged her new friend. "There is a reason they call Chloe Beale unpaintable."


	2. Chapter 2

**If Beca Mitchell** was confident in any situation, it wouldn't have made a difference. The resolve that she had built up over years of sailing open water and devoting her life to her art fell away in a matter of seconds. Seconds where the world seemed to the slow and her heart began to stop. Where she couldn't hear words or feel her own strong stance holding her up.

It all just stopped.

The warm breeze that blew in from the courtyard didn't seem to thaw her nerves- a thick scent of honeysuckles and lemons coating her lungs as Beca flexed her fingers in her pocket; checking to see if they were real. Checking to see if she was in fact, real.

Chloe tucked the mask under her arm, chest heaving up and down as she stepped foot onto the terracotta patio, red hair almost matching the strong consistency of her coppery locks. Sweat coated almost every inch of exposed ivory skin- and those eyes, those eyes were the spitting image of the very ocean that Beca spent her lively hood navigating.

The woman in front of her didn't look like a human at all. She looked godly, she looked like the legends that seamen spin about the beings carved into the bows of their ships- clutching onto the material in living creative mutiny. They described them as siren's, otherworldly beings that would utilize their vocal cords to lure those looking for something more into a deathly trap. Those dumb enough to fall in love, but smart enough to know that it was worth the demise. Worth the pain and suffering.

The leggy chef had effectively moved away from her new companion, fingers reaching for the brass faucet as she filled two crystal glasses with water, ice clinking in its translucent silence. Beca, however, stood in complete awe. Not trusting herself to move even if she had the capacity to do so.

"I see you do have something in common with the rest of them." Stacie mused, the hint of a teasing smirk in her voice. "They can never help to stare, either. Ramirez very well got lockjaw."

"Ramirez?" The word dripped like poison past Beca's lips. She straightened up, that spark from seeing the woman for the first time tapering down to a well-lit flame. The mention of this, this man, who had tried and failed to create a portrayal of someone this deserving. "The Spanish painter?"

"That's the one." Stacie cocked her head to the side "Devilishly handsome, a huge ego. You know him then"

"We call him El Demonio" Beca let out in almost a scoff, flashing her midnight eyes to the two women who shared a conversation just on the other side of the glass- Aubrey clenching the handle but not yet pulling the item away from the wall. "He has a harsh way of making a canvas an object to be slathered in red, and not a feeling that should be treated with care."

"I suppose," Stacie spoke carefully "His work was a bit… edged."

"It's rubbish!" Beca grumbled, turning her back to the scene beside her as she focused on the chef standing idly by the sink. "Daniel Ramirez is a disgrace to the community. When you paint something, it shouldn't be a chore, you need to feel it through every inch of your body. Somewhere along the line, that man became more about the payout than the craft. Te juro que el hombre folla todo lo que camina"

Her voice turned into a low growl, Stacie letting her shoulders fall back at the twinge of jealousy that bestowed her new-found friend. It was almost amusing, seeing how worked up she got in the presence of another artist. One that she clearly deemed unworthy of being in such a position.

"No lo sé, no era tan malo." The voice was like silk, a heavy and light property all at once. Beca had never heard anything like it, exposed skin filled with chills as she bolted upright, eyes widening as she noticed Stacie's attention on something else, someone else. "He did teach me Spanish, so he had the patience of an artist."

Beca clenched her eyes shut, drawing in a composing breath. The taller brunette with an amusing stare on her lips as she handed over the two glasses of water to the women over Beca's shoulder. The blonde grasping it with a small nod of thanks before raising the crystal to her lips, taking a few long gulps as Chloe simply wrapped her fingers around hers.

"Forgive me," Beca mumbled exhaustedly, turning to face the two that almost towered over her. Even with their tired looks, and sweat coated brows, they were still a sight to behold- still keeping a long and pensive stare at the newest addition to the staff. "That was crude."

"No need to apologize," Chloe's voice came out as a low purr, she never broke eye contact with the girl in that stood in her kitchen as she rose the sweaty glass to her lips. She took a few long sips, not stopping as drops moved down her chest and soaked into the white fencing guard. Beca squinted her eyes, watching carefully. Again, this stranger had captivated her attention with a simple everyday action.

Aubrey cleared her throat then, snapping stormy eyes towards the woman. Equally as beautiful, looking more like a descendant of Athens with deep Irish eyes. The sun backlit her, jaw chiseled from stone. "You must be the new artist that Garret hired." It wasn't a question.

"The one and only," Beca let a lazy smile find a way to her lips. She held out her hand, Aubrey hesitating as she took it, touch gentle and hot from the outside activity. "Beca Mitchell."

"I've never seen your work." She cut straight to the point, lifting her chin.

"Many haven't, my art isn't conventional. I don't paint to earn money, I paint to gain experience. So you wouldn't see my stuff in a chapel, or hanging on a wall." She admitted, pulling her hand back. Chloe swallowed the last of her water- placing it on the table softly, her eyes moved to warm blue ones. "I'm not even sure how your husband found me."

"He has his ways, Beca." Chloe steeled her shoulders. The tiny brunette lifting her head up slightly. This was the first time since she had been in this house that she didn't have to correct someone on using the less formal version of her name. It rolled off the older woman's tongue like hot honey dripping past the beehive. "Now, I'm going to freshen up."

Dark eyes scanned over Beca's figure, they had changed color almost completely, dilated and filled with what could only be described as danger. They looked uncharacteristically hungry, not something the young artist expected from her client. Especially one in a committed marriage. Aubrey drew in a sharp breath, noticing the change in atmosphere.

"Beca, are you coming?"

"Am I?" The brunette started to bumble over her words "Do you… want me to?"

A certain heat pushed against Beca's cheek, her breath short as she looked between the other women in the room. They acted like this was normal behavior, like this is what the artists that were let into this compound did. She was supposed to paint, not follow this mysterious stranger into a shower.

"Of course, I do." Chloe cocked her head to the side like Beca was the one who had a deep madness instilled in her. "How are you going to paint something you've never seen?"

 **The bedroom was** bigger than anything she had ever seen- the colors translating from the rest of the mansion. There was a central theme of red, something that the girl found odd. No room that was painted with the energetic color ever translated to calm.

It somehow worked for the space; a large wooden four post bed was coated in the most extravagant duvet (probably made out of the best silk and finest fabric). The large curtains were peeled back, bringing in a large rectangle of light.

Chloe cut across it in one swift move, dropping the chest guard on the mattress unceremoniously, leaving her in a black tank-top, the thin coat of sweat catching the rays as she let out a small sigh, Beca creaking the door shut as she stood uncomfortably by them- her back practically glued to the mahogany.

"Red is an interesting choice." She mumbled, breaking the silence, knowing that it was becoming even heavier than usual. Beca took a small step forward, watching as Chloe started to unbuckle the guards and paddings that came with her choice in sport. "Colorwise."

"Is it?" Chloe scrunched up her nose nervously.

"It raises heart rate." Beca mused, not getting to close to the other end of the bed. "People usually use it for living areas or kitchens, but never bedrooms."

"Oh really?" She smirked, "And what would you suggest I paint this place?"

Beca drew in a small breath, staring around the room as Chloe followed her gaze, stopping where she saw the tiny woman. The woman who had captivated her attention more than any of the other painters her husband had brought in. She was strong and captivating and chilled her to the bone. But she held her composure. Held her trembling hands steady.

"Blue." She whispered, bringing her gaze up to the woman that stood uncomfortably close. She had taken a few tiny steps across the end of the bed, thumb looped in her belt as she was in the middle of stripping her lower half. "It has the opposite effect of red. Not that harsh stuff your husband put everywhere. It has to be soft." Beca brought her voice down a bit. "Kind of like your eyes."

"My eyes?" Chloe eased out. Her breath was hot on Beca's collarbone.

"They shift from green to blue, correct?" the small brunette let out a half chuckle. By the look of confusion, she got from the redhead solidified her skepticism. "Or, you've never noticed, and I sound like an absolute lunatic right now."

"What kind of idiot doesn't know what their own eyes look like." Chloe cracked a smile that brought out the light in the room. A strong and dazzling one that made such a heat press against the smaller girl's abdomen. Her voice was barely above a whisper, something raspy and hoarse.

There was an odd silence that passed over the room, one that stirred the brunette's thoughts. "Chloe, do you even want a painting?"

The redhead drew in a thick breath, her stare averting from her new counterpart. The stranger who stood shorter than her. She wasn't like the other guys that her husband brought in to capture her likeness. She was willing and able and carried a stronger energy than anyone she had met. The passion was there.

"Honestly, no." She cocked her head to the side. "Garret Beale is obsessed with image. He wants people to see me the way that he does- but as an artist, I'm sure you know that's near impossible. Everybody interprets life a different way."

"In other words, he'll never be satisfied with anyone's work because it's not through his eyes."

She nodded solemnly. "I have no interest in being objectified countless times, Beca." Chloe lifted her chin "he has brought so many people into my home, into my livelihood just to what? Have a good piece to hang above the mantel."

Beca's mouth was dry. She could hear the pain in this woman's voice. This near stranger that had been subjected to hours a day of sitting still- probably growing a strong hatred to whoever held the brush, whoever drew the lines and colored them in. Because the truth was, her painting would go above a fireplace- maybe in the office, or in the countless studies that Garret owned. That man would sit with delicately wrapped cigars and stare up at his wife's naked form like she was just that; an object.

"I uh," Beca swallowed roughly. "I won't take a part in that if you don't… if you're not comfortable."

"Of course, I'm comfortable, Beca." She smirked, "I married him, didn't I?"

She opened her mouth to object, to speak. Nothing came to mind, her own racing as if it never had a pause button. Part of the reason she painted in the first place. It was like a slow button, it let her focus on the hue's in the flowers, and colors in the skies.

"Now, _Miss Mitchell_ " She dragged out the word huskily, gripping the bottom of her tank-top. In one swift movement she pulled it above her head- hair still falling into her gaze as the top half of her body was left cruelly uncovered. The fabric being discarded onto the floor somewhere. Beca averting her gaze to the ceiling. "Are you going to paint me, or what?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Everything was silent,** not even the birds daring to make a sound in the scalding summer day. Beca's ears usually rung, a sharp and shrill sound that she had grown used to- almost like she couldn't' exactly hear it anymore. A background noise that only became apparent in situations like this one; situations where she could feel the body heat of another- smell the salty brine of sweat that came off a stranger's body.

Now, it was quiet.

Chloe stood there in a bit of a stalemate, the young painter's heart pounding in her chest like she was faced with someone well into lunacy. Perhaps she was, perhaps this woman made up in looks for what she lacked in sanity.

Beca refused to shift her eyes, to let the tension in her body relax. This wasn't the type of painting that she had signed up for or even considered. It made an edge of heat press against her core as she reached blindly for the garment that had been discarded on the large queen-sized mattress to her right.

She shoved it into Chloe's hands, the ginger lifting her eyebrows in amusement as she grasped it, effectively covering herself up like a child at a getaway camp. "While we are both adults, Miss Beale." Beca finally allowed herself to make eye contact. "I do not believe this is what your husband had in mind when he asked me to capture your likeness."

Chloe drew in a sharp breath, one that was laced with disappointment, as far as Beca could tell. She couldn't be quite sure, her focus drawn to the blush that flooded the woman's complexion. "I'm um," She murmured. "I apologize, that was crass. That is the only type of art that has been created so far and-"

She was rambling at this point, a different side of her that made Beca's stomach flutter. Since the second the artist had laid eyes on Chloe Beale, she had been confident; holding her chin high and shoulders measured upon a level. But now, now she was a bumbling mess. One that made a slight smirk pull close to Beca's lips.

"Cálmate Chloe" The brunette eased out softly, raising her palm up to the woman's jawline, it was soft, if not heated. She brought eyes a new shade of navy to her own. "Perhaps this is why they were all fired."

Chloe's stare was wide, mouth propped open in a bit of shock. Beca's touch was gentle, something Garret never possessed. Her movements weren't rushed or seeping with a different motive. They were intentional, every second thought through.

She took a steadying breath, throat raw and stare kind. "Maybe it would be better if we start over, then." Her words soft, barely above a whisper "Something tells me you're not keen on learning about me in this nature."

"You're a married woman, Chloe." Beca gave her a slight wink "I know who not to cross."

Beca took a step back, giving her an encouraging smile before heading towards the large mahogany doors that had grown on her since she stepped into the room. They seemed too extravagant at first, almost like the entirety of the house. The metal cold against her palm as she hurried into the hallway.

It closed with a light thud as she pressed her back quickly against the wood, clenching her eye shut, so hard that little bright shapes danced across her eyelids in a vibrant irony. Beca let the breath she was holding in, out. That familiar ringing returning to her ears as she struggled to catch her composure.

She dug her nails into the mahogany, not paying much attention to the craftsmanship, or the way the wood folded under a slight touch. Instead, she swallowed roughly, enjoying the cold contrast of an unlikely draft.

"She's not always like that, you know." Beca's eyes shot open, greeted by the harsh light that streamed in from the large bay windows at the end of the landing- expertly assembled. It was Aubrey, Aubrey who had her nose pointed high in the air for more than half of their earlier conversation.

Beca watched her carefully, cautiously.

"You are the first to turn her down." Aubrey dipped her chin slightly, running her fingers menacingly against the nearby banister. She had showered herself, dressed in a pair of slacks and a pinstriped blouse, a tied knot at her throat. "Unless you're just quick with your recovery time-"

"I don't see how that's any of your concern." The brunette's voice broke despite her confidence.

"Oh, but it is." Aubrey turned to face her slightly "Miss Mitchell, do you know how hard it is to see Chloe tramp around with any man brought into this place? Part of me thinks it's because of Garret's lack of attention, but it very well may be Chloe's craving for it."

Beca let out a scoff as she pushed herself away from the door, walking towards the first set of stairs that would get her down to her quarters, or at least the kitchen. Something told the young woman that Stacie's presence was enough to lull the blonde demon into dropping delicate subjects.

"I was hired to do a job," Beca held herself firm, not slowing her pace as the woman caught up with her- stairs wide enough for the two of them to walk hand and hand. The smaller of the two stopping right by the main railing, hand placed simply on the wood as she turned to face her in quickness. "The way Miss Beale presents herself to me and any other artist is not my position to judge."

"So she did try it then?" Aubrey lifted a pointed brow. "You must understand that this is not healthy behavior, and I am just looking out for her."

"I am no threat." Beca sounded out with ease. "Garret want's a painting. I intend to give him one and go back to the Pacific, with all due respect, you're disgruntled because she threw herself at me?"

The logic didn't make much sense to Beca, it almost confirmed her thoughts about wealth. Money made you bored, and expectant of many things. It also made you hollow, that was something that the young girl never saw a need for, the emptiness that clouded painter's judgments and warped them cynically.

"No," Aubrey drew in a careful breath "I am concerned because no man or woman has ever succeeded in turning her down before."

"Does she usually get what she wants?" The brunette asked her simply, Aubrey's dull grey eyes flashing with recognition before she nodded slowly, a hesitant one, afraid of giving too much away about her friend. "Ah, well, that's too bad then."

 **Night had fallen** quickly, the bright blues of the sky fading out to a sharp grey before trickling into the everlasting darkness. The type of darkness that made crickets stir from their nocturnal slumber.

It was a southern thing, the sound of crickets mixing with those of frogs. Big frogs that were slime covered and angry each time you got too close to them. The large estate bordered a swamp- the thick willow trees creating dark shadows against lanterns that stretched and morphed their colors.

Beca pushed her back further into the little metal bench, staring out at the murky water graced with lily pads and duckweeds. Even in the black of night, it was easy to see their vibrant effect.

She barely looked up as the soft scent of lavender filled her lungs, palm resting on her leg as an edge of sweat collected against her collarbone. It was hot- humid even. The bench shifting the second the girl lowered herself onto it- listening to the quiet.

"You don't have fireflies here." Beca finally mumbled, running her fingers over the seam of her pants silently, air heavy against her throat. "The swamp it, uh, it's darker than it should be."

Chloe shifted her lapis stare shifting to look at the aloof gaze on Beca's face. She hadn't noticed the small leather-bound book in the girl's lap until now, it's pages worn and even water stained. Her thumb held the charcoal pencil to the cover like glue.

She redhead had never seen fireflies, her mind wandering.

"Usually there are these little specks of light," Beca continued with ease. "They kind of dance, like a waltz. You know? Makes the place look a little less murdery."

"That is not a word," Chloe cracked a smile, voice humorous. Beca chuckled took, turning her head to get a good look at the woman. If it was possible, she had grown even more alluring over the process of the night.

The moonlight was pale and dominating compared to that of the lantern, it's flames stretching her features and shadowing them with soft edges. "It's true, you could perish in this place."

"It's easy for you to say that," Chloe nudged her softly "You're not the one living here."

"Oh, but I am." Beca joked, lifting her hand to point at some random tree as she tilted her head. "You're telling me, that tree doesn't look like something an ax murderer could hide behind?"

"Well, now it does!" Chloe exclaimed, grasping the girl's hand and shoving it down into her lap. The two of them breaking out into another round of laughter- quiet, as if not to disturb the nature around them. Finally dulling down to a small bout of silence.

"Can I see?" Chloe finally asked, lifting her chin towards the journal that was in Beca's grasp. She instinctively tightened her fingers around it before they loosened a bit. Her sketchbook was never something that she had shown anyone, her work special, and messy, and evolving every single time she was taught a new method.

She pulled the pages open to a random one, not sure what part of her travels it would open to. This wasn't her first book, and it wouldn't' be her last, but something told her Chloe didn't care either way. As long as she could see the lines drawn.

The pages were painted with a city, large and looming over cobblestone streets. You could see the depth of the multi-window buildings, clotheslines stretching between structures while large trolleys rushed past on established train tracks. The sky was colored with the parchment that rested under it.

Chloe let out an audible gasp, gently shifting the book further into her gaze, running her fingertips over the indentations on the paper. Her eyes twinkling as she flashed the towards Beca for a split second before returning her attention to the page.

"Barcelona in 1910," Beca said, scooting closer to run her finger down the stain of the page close to the edge. "I was sitting in some random apartment window when the guy caught me, he had a terrible aim- but his coffee cup didn't."

"It's gorgeous," Chloe husked, "Is that how you learned Spanish? By squatting in Barcelona."

"I didn't squat." Beca leaned back, letting her arm outstretched behind the woman to her side for pure comfort, the bench small and her warmth overwhelming. "I simply found the best view. Aprendí por necesidad."

"Right," Chloe sounded out her words carefully, running her fingers down the pages, "May I?"

"Go ahead." Beca gave her a nod of approval, the girl not wasting much time as she flipped to the next page. It was a picture of clear water, icy corners that revealed a dark cavernous bottom. A girl sat by the edge, her complexion dark and muddy as hair fell into her eyes.

"Is this Barcelona too?" Chloe asked, stare questioning.

"Jordan, actually." Beca shifted her stance once more, scooting closer as Chloe's shoulder leaned against her side, her sweet scent meshing with that of a swamp. "The dead sea."

"The what?" Her voice was innocent, filled with wonder as she made sharp eye contact with Beca.

"The dead sea," She reiterated with a gentle quiet. "It's the lowest part of the world. It's filled with salt and is probably one of the most therapeutic places I have ever been to. Calming."

Chloe swallowed thickly, pressing the pad of her touch right under the woman in the picture. "And her?"

"A stranger." The brunette whispered. "No one special."

Chloe breathed out softly, pressing her back further into the bench, stare focusing on the lines and curves that Beca's pencil had made years ago, her touch toying at the edge of the leather. She was quiet, mouth dry and senseless as the heat continued to press against her cheeks. Not jealousy, never jealousy. Not even discomfort.

It was a yearning, a yearning that both Beca Mitchell and Chloe Beale felt in this desolate moment.


	4. Chapter 4

**[A/N: Head's up, this is a bit of a backstory chapter. Changing things from a little story to a big one made me need kind of a buffer in between. But I promise, it'll pick up.]**

 ** _"Tienes_** _ **que concentrate**_ _en el Arte, Beca" His words were sharp and laced with a hissing venom. It dripped past his tongue, picked up on every aspect of his thick accent. Each syllable was over pronounced and drawn out. His chin was held higher than his ego at this point, back against a clay wall. It was undeniably steaming from the Spanish sun that bore down on the pair._

 _His skin was like leather, wrinkled and worn from the countless hours spent in the whitewashed courtyard, a thick sweat forming right above the mans' brow. He didn't make another advance towards the young painter- the ran welt on her cheek enough to quell his movements for more than a few moments._

 _Beca breathed in deeply, chewing the inside of her jaw. Her ear was ringing, pulsing with her heartbeat pounding against the inside of her wrist. He had struck her before, never this hard, never with this much passion behind his movements. She clenched the graphite closer to her palm, not shifting at the black mark it created on her skin._

 _"_ vete _a la mierda" She grumbled out with discontent. "You don't think I'm trying, Christian?"_

 _He wrinkled up his nose, making his aged features look even more so. This man, the one in front of her, was supposed to be a skilled painter. One that Beca had traveled months to follow in studies. It took another thirty days to even convince the borderline drunk to give up his seat at the tavern and pick up a pencil again. Except, he hadn't. Not in the past four weeks._

 _All Christian Calderon had done so far was lecture the brunette about art styles on his rooftop garden. Something that was a bit extravagant and overlooked the city of Madrid. A beautiful view that Beca wanted to sketch the second she got a good look at the expertly crafted buildings and streetways._

 _Calderon had refused it, though, stating that she was under his teachings now. She placed her instrument to the paper when, and only when, he allowed it. Now was not one of those times- her back resting against the far side of the wall, a ripe apple in her hands, growing warm from the lack of storage._

 _"I know you're not trying," He let out an exasperated sigh, running his hand through his dark mane of pitch hair. "If you were attempting to see what I am to instruct, then we would not be having this conversation, and I would have had to-"_

 _"Strike me?" She asked, toying with the sarcasm in her voice, "I got it."_

 _"Then tell me," he squatted down in front of her, gently, placing his hand over hers as he pulled the apple up to her view, her midnight stare focusing hard on the piece of fruit that he had picked from the tree in a yard three blocks over. "What do you see?"_

 _'hungry' hadn't been the right answer, and neither had red. Beca was stating the obvious at this point. She had even gone as far as stepping into a few different hues of the bloody color, but all_ was _met with a hard glare and an even harder smack to the face. Not out of ill will, out of discipline. She understood- but the taste of iron was itching at her tongue and clawing at her throat. She wasn't sure how much more she could take of it._

 _"Please, young one." His voice began to crack under the pressure. Christian hating this almost as much as she did. Hated drawing his hand back and bringing it against already irritated bone. "Tell me."_

 _She drew in a small breath, fingers digging into the malleable skin of the fruit. It was smooth, weighted in her palm as she spun it to the side. It was just an apple, the same thing she had seen at every bodega, hanging off of multiple oaks that reached towards the sky- and pressed its branches into the blue depths._

 _"I uh," She swallowed thickly, "I see summer, I suppose."_

 _Beca drew back, wincing involuntarily for a strike that never made contact. He just stared, his chestnut eyes not showing any type of emotion or sign that she was right. A sign that was wrong would have been worse, however, her stance tightening._

 _"Red can mean war," She sounded out carefully, "But it can also mean love. Something that took the time to form around one tiny seed in the soil. It wasn't instant, but it was there. It grew, and it flourished, and now it's sitting in my hand in the warmth of a mid-day sun."_

 _Christian lifted his chin in the slightest of ways, rolling his shoulders back. "Take a bite."_

 _She was hesitant, raising the item to her lips as she stared at the gold flecks that circled the man's pupil. He didn't' make a move to interject, her tongue tankful for the change in taste as sweet juices dribbled off her chin and soaked into her cotton shirt. She chewed slowly, eyes darting down to the sizable dent she had made in the fruit._

 _"Good," he breathed out, stare darting to the sketch pad to her side. "When you paint, La Hija, you should remember this feeling of summer, and taste of apples- because it is all you have to hold onto. All you should allow yourself to display within the lines."_

 _She gulped back the residual taste, staring at him with wide composure. "You want me to?"_

 _"Draw, young one." He nodded solemnly "make it count."_

Beca Mitchell drew in a soft breath, fingers running over the smooth edge of the apple. It was a deeper shade of crimson than she had ever seen before- grown in different soil and brought up in a different climate of the world. It would be undoubtedly sweet, tooth-rotting.

She held it up, inspecting the bruising and the slight deformed edge that it had to its shape. It wasn't perfect, but no apple was. The weight of it making her fingers ache. The brunette had lost her train of thought a few moments ago, listening to the steady chopping that Stacie provided each time her steel knife came down on the crisped edge of the fruit.

"I lost you a few minutes ago." The taller of the two spoke out, swiping her palm against the wooden cutting board, brushing all the juicy pieces to the side tactfully. "Thinking about anything interesting?"

"I don't like apples," Beca said, instead, placing it down with a look of disdain on her features.

"Ah, what an eloquent speech you have been piecing together Madame Mitchell."

"Fuck off," A smile found it's way to her lips regardless, she liked the way that Stacie teased and berated her. She didn't' tip-toe like the rest of the staff did. They wouldn't even meet her eyes on most occasions, going about their work just like Beca had intended to do for the past three days of near silence in this place.

However, Chloe Beale is a hard woman to track down within the walls of this estate. It had become apparent to the young artist that if she wanted to be found, she would be. There was no point in looking for a woman who had no interest in the work that was sure to take place at some point- their shared conversation by the Southern swamp was the last she had seen of the girl in forty-eight hours.

For now, she sat at the island, residing to the far corner of the place while she watched Stacie prepare what looked like an apple dessert of some kind- maybe even a pie. She wasn't sure- she was more focused on the woman's movements; how fluid and precise they were compared to the clunky ones of her own. Residing to the fact that she was meant to be a painter and not a cook. She had even begun to sketch a rough drawing of the woman in front of her, messy and always coated in some form of baking material.

"Good thing this thing isn't for you," Stacie continued her train of thought. "Unless you can get past your unnatural distaste for apples?" She cocked an eyebrow, throwing a glance Beca's way. By the scrunched-up expression on the woman's face, she assumed that was a no. She didn't question the girl, instead, bringing the sharpened edge of the knife into the crisp fruit.

"Does the woman of the house have a thing for them?"

"A thing?" Stacie sounded out carefully, "I would say no. What she does carry an affinity for is my apple cake. No one can refuse it."

"Watch me, Conrad," Beca grumbled under her breath. She couldn't stand the thought of that sickeningly sweet taste anymore. It was just what Christian had taught her- it wasn't about the object, but the feeling connected to it. This feeling was laced with dread and questioning of self-worth, something her old teacher mastered in. "Speaking of which, have you seen her?"

"Not for a few days," She lifted her shoulders up slightly. "Are you that keen on packing up your brooding attitude and heading back out to sea?"

Beca drew in a careful breath. These last couple of days had been calming, albeit, strange. She hadn't stressed the worry of where her next meal was coming from, or how early she had to wake up to be out of quarters before the real owner returned to their storefront. It wasn't that she didn't miss life on the streets, and crave for even one bit of danger, because she did. But it was so quiet, and still. She was stuck in time, frozen in golden amber with her wings raised and pension building.

"Aye aye." Beca gave her a tantalizing wink. It was easier this way, to shove everything off with a light wave of the hand instead of going into her psyche with a girl she barely knew but felt connected to. She wasn't afraid to talk with her, to open up and share the worries that plagued her.

"And what about you?" Beca asked, not sparing much detail. "Ever see yourself sailing against the Pacific?"

"Mm, never." Stacie shook her head. "That's left for my brother, a sc-all-y wag."

Beca had to bite down a laugh at the way the leggy brunette struggled through the word. Her tongue stuck out a bit from her lips, eyes staring up at the ceiling as she tried to place her words. It wasn't natural, almost aloof. It brought a genuine smile to the smaller woman's features, her fingers spinning the brown stem of the apple absently.

Both women glanced up as someone new entered the kitchen, Beca's breath catching in her throat like it was sticky, the air humid from the working ovens overtime and the streaming sun still creating a large reflective rectangle against the tile. Chloe's hair was wet from a shower, her lavender bath soap coating her throat and lungs. It was soothing, catching.

Chloe's wild mane of copper locks flowed over her bloused chest. An armed guard strapped to her forearm and going up past her elbow. It made her arm look a little awkward and straight- but her shoulders were pulled back in a defined way. She flicked her royal stare to Stacie.

"Is that what I think it is?" She asked, a sprouted smile on her lips. Chloe breathed in strongly, a look of bliss making Beca sit back in her seat, the stem still between her forefingers.

"Mm-hm" Stacie wiggled a bit, shoving more apple pieces to the side, Chloe's own eyes widening with excitement.

"Seriously," Chloe pointed a finger towards Beca "her apple cake is the best thing in the whole entire world."

"I wouldn't' go that far," She laughed "Nothing is better than sex, including this cake."

The girl let out a huff as she reached forward, attempting to dip her finger in the buttercream icing, resting softly in a spreadable pile. It almost looked too pure, too sweet. Stacie, however, batted the girl's hand away before she got a chance. "Chlo,"

"Come on," She groaned like a child, Beca smirking until her jaw was sore. She had only seen a poised side of the woman, the type where every little movement was overthought. She had even gotten a taste of the dangerous and daring woman who knew how to fence like no other. But not this, not a girl struggling to get a hold of sweets, just waiting to get scolded. "Stace, you expect me to wait all day?"

"That's exactly what I expect you to do." She snipped back, pulling the last apple from Beca's grasp with a sparing glance. Chloe let out a discontent huff. She quickly got over it, flashing that indigo color back to Beca. It sent a wave of dissipating chills through her spine, lips parting slightly.

"Hi," Chloe let out a long sigh, a slight smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Hi," Beca rolled her shoulders back pulling her arm over the edge of the chair so she could turn to face the woman more, her other hand resting on the table, a leather-clad book under her fingertips. It seemed she took it everywhere, palms coated in black charcoal.

"You need to get changed." Chloe scanned the length of her stare over Beca, the girl in long sleeves and even longer pants- her whole body always having a bit of a chill to it despite how many layers she allowed herself to hold, Stacie cocking her head to the side.

"What? Why?" Beca held her arm out a bit, staring down at her dark clothing.

" _I_ am going to teach _you_ how to fence," Chloe stated matter-of-factly.

Beca squinted her dusky eyes, "Gee that sure sounds like fun, Chloe, but I would rather take that fork and stab myself in the throat."

Stacie drew in a careful breath, slowly pushing the metal utensil away from the small artist. Chloe crossing her arms over her chest as she elicited an amused scoff. "You want to get to know me? Well, you have to know fencing first."

"It's a sport with pointy things that you thrust into the air." Beca waving her hand in the air.

"No," Chloe took a small step forward "It's a practice of agility and swift movements that help regulate heart rate and overall pain tolerance. Kind of like painting." Beca raised her eyebrows, bemused. "Get changed, Picasso. Meet me in the yard in twenty."


	5. Chapter 5

**[A/N: Guys, disclaimer, I know nothing about fencing, I did my best]**

 **Fencing was something** Beca never allowed herself to think about. She didn't have a desire to tap into a hidden skill that was driven into her mind like an ice pick. All things said and done, that was near impossible when the woman willing you into her yard was Chloe Beale. Those bright blue eyes and cutting stone jaw was enough to lull the young artist into a mess of putty on the floor. Moldable and controllable to anything that was thrown at her.

Just like the techniques she used when she held a brush between her forefingers, fencing was something she learned sparingly in Spain.

Because, even though she hated to admit it to a certain degree, Chloe was right. Fencing was like painting. It was a technique used to learn control and discipline. You needed to know where the tip of your weapon was going to go. Each move calculated and reckless, the damage being done the second you swiped up or down with a metal edged sword.

Though, living on the sea for the past two years had softened Beca to something more. When Pirates are mentioned it's all about the swords. All about the cannons that shoot softly and blow gaping holes into the side of awaiting ships. Hell, it was even about the treasure that you could find buried under a red "X". At least, those were the myths.

Now, Pirates had guns. They had guns and maybe the occasional pocket knife used for gutting fish or working away at a rope that couldn't' just be cut with expertly placed scissors. It made Beca stronger and weaker all at once, her sword skills staying so far behind her that she regretted putting on the guards that usually came along with fencing.

Beca Mitchell was uncomfortable. She stood awkwardly in the yard, sweat already beginning to soak through her inner layer of clothes. Everything was too white; the jacket that stuck too close to her throat, the contrast in the gloves that covered her grip (Something the girl found quite important), the chest protector that was plastic and cutting into her circulation. This was all Chloe's element. Not hers.

She swore that if that stupid mesh mask wasn't covering the woman's god-like features than a big taunting smirk would be visible. Art was Beca's expertise, but sword handling was her vice. Something she hoped was like riding a bike. Fencing too stuffy and uncontrollable for her. At least that's how she felt about the French.

"It's simple, really." Chloe rolled her shoulders back, Beca struggling to hear her over the sound of her own labored breathing. "You don't have to look so frightened."

"How can you tell I'm frightened if you can't see a damn thing through this mask?" Beca griped, not happy at her wire view of the world. It made her feel like she was in a large terracotta cast, the Sabre heavy and weighted in her hands.

"Body language, my dear." Chloe stated matter of factly. "Relax."

Maybe she was right. It would have been easier to focus on the actual sport of it all if she could cast away the thought of Stacie and Aubrey staring through the patio windows. Of course, she and Stacie had done the same thing when the blonde was out here instead- but they were skilled, and Beca had the sinking feeling that Aubrey kept her nose pointed up just waiting to see her fall on her ass.

"We stay above the waistline," Chloe instructed, standing a few feet from Beca. "Once I say go, I'm afraid we can't be friends anymore Miss Mitchell."

"Oh, is that so?" Beca tightened her grip on her blade. "What a shame, I wasn't aware we had moved to the friendship level of our interactions."

That's exactly what they were at this point, interactions sprinkled with an odd sexual tension. There was, of course, that one moment out by the swamp. The one that kept drawing Beca back. If it were anyone else she would have forgotten the commission and the money, and of course the housing. None of it was important. But Chloe was.

She had her feet splayed at two angles, a fighting position that Beca knew would spring her forward with expert craft. She held most of her weight in her back foot, the girl lulling her shoulders as she lifted her weapon- the tip staring at Beca like it had its own iris that was silver and cold.

"En Garde." Chloe barked out roughly, having enough of the teasing today.

Beca drew in a careful breath as she stilled her own stance. Raising her blade so it was a mere centimeter away from Chloe's, if her hand shook, they would have clanked together loudly like wind chimes during a summers day. A swampy day like this one.

"Allez."

Beca knew that Chloe would advance first, this was her element. Her left foot would spring forward, the tiny brunette moving her right one back as she avoided the pointed tip like the plague. It was almost like dancing, the girl swinging her blade under Chloe's, metal making a loud noise as it scraped against one another. She moved her arm expertly, pushing Chloe's blade down to the soft soil. Chloe stalled a bit in her movements- knowing Beca had a bit of experience- but this was meant to be an easy match.

Chloe raised her sabre once more, swiping it down, only to be blocked once more by her opponent, an annoyed growl emerging from the woman's throat.

"I thought you didn't' know what you were doing?" Chloe said, voice breathy.

"Oh, I don't," Beca spoke. "Maybe you're just that bad."

The taller woman let out a dark breath as she lunged forward once more, this time with more contention. Beca wasn't fast enough to block the attempt, but she pulled her left shoulder back, all the same, the redhead not grazing her skin in the slightest.

"La verdadera Desterza" Beca said, pressing the shaft of her sabre against Chloe's once more, sliding it fast enough to create sparks if the metal was heated enough. "You were taught with Linear footwork?"

Chloe stilled her movements for a moment, a quick and quiet second. "Of course, were you not?"

"Mm," Beca hummed softly "Moving directly towards your adversary is dangerous and Reckless. You must move for an angle of attack, Chloe. It's favorable if you ever intend to win."

"Oh, I have full intent."

"Good," Beca lifted her chin "Than I suggest you focus on the degree and strength of your blade instead of the target you wish to strike."

That was basic sword fighting knowledge. Something told Beca that the girl in front of her had studied under Lecole Francaise d'escrime. It was the historical way of fencing, something that was driven by tradition. It reminded Beca of stories from the American Revolution, the British ultimately falling to its demise after forming straight lines to walk into gunfire. It was fruitless, Beca could almost predict Chloe's every move.

"Fencing seems like a far cry from sword fighting." Beca took a small step to her side, beginning to circle the girl like prey. "And you're pretty well versed in fencing, aren't you Chlo?"

Beca had to admit, she wasn't too confident in her own skills. Sure, she had blocked a few shots, but it was all about the confidence. She had plenty of that, and by the way Chloe whipped around, blue eyes undoubtedly following her every move, Beca knew she had the girl.

The sound of steel against steel was quickly heard as Chloe swung her blade under Beca's feet, the girl lifting a brow as she quickly jumped into the air, letting her boots hit the soft soil with a dull thud, Chloe's chest heaving up and down as she let out another lycanthrope growl. It almost sounded inhuman, the competitive nature of the woman showing through her mask.

"Ah, we said above the waist, remember?" Beca stated clearly "Those are the rules."

"Screw the rules." Chloe huffed.

In a way, Beca was trying to get a rise out of Chloe. She had seen many aspects of the girl at this point. The calm and collected version that kept her poised stature about her. The playful side that reminded the young artist of the color yellow (Reckless, but joyful). Hell, she had even seen pink, a vulnerability in a soft mess of color. But now Beca wanted to draw out red. A fire filled anger that came with beating an heiress at her own twisted game.

"I thought you loved to play by them?" Beca kept her Sabre raised, anticipating anything.

Instead of answering Chloe sprung forward, Beca nearly missing her cheap shot by a few seconds, adjusting her touch on the grip as she and Chloe began to fall into a strange pattern. The taller woman would step forward with haste, Beca falling behind in her step almost like a maliced tango. It was fast paced and fueled by annoyance; a thick brine of sweat had collected under Beca's clothing, her arm guard pinching at tender skin as she worked with confidence.

She drew in a sharp breath as the back of her heel hit the base of the oak tree, she had nowhere to back into- nowhere but down. In a sharp twist of fate, Chloe had her pushed into a corner, swiping the tip of the sabre towards her inner shoulder. Beca let out a yelp as she ducked down quickly, the metal edge creating a long and unforgiving gash in the tree's bark.

The girl quickly sprung back up, not finding her baring for a few seconds as Chloe skillfully got the right angle on Beca's touch, knocking the only weapon the woman had to the perfectly groomed grass, Beca's chest burning with activity as she stretched her fingers for a few seconds before flashing her stare back up to Chloe. She could make a dive across the yard and get her weapon back. But something told her that with the fire in Chloe's disposition, she would never make it.

The redhead panted slightly, her own weapon straight in front of her as she tilted her head to the side, even with the mask, Beca could imagine the look on her face; determined, tired, maybe even a little lustful. Not for her, at least she didn't think so, but for the sport. For that very control that she wished she possessed.

Despite her eagerness, Chloe took one simple step forward, Beca holding her hands up in surrender as she stared the girl down. She was slow with her movement, extending her arm until the metal tip of the sabre pressed lightly into Beca's shoulder, barely noticeable against the guards and quilt-like uniforms.

"Point," Chloe said in a husky voice, finally dropping her hand to the side, her shoulder more or less a sore jumble of nerves at this stage.

Beca nodded softly, almost accepting her defeat as she placed her gloved fingers under the edge of her mask, pulling it over her head. Even though the air was soupy and thick, there was a slight breeze. One that quickly cooled the girl's cheeks as she brushed her hair from her forehead. Watching carefully as Chloe pulled her own mask from her face.

"You don't play fair, Mitchell." She grumbled, tucking the sabre under her arm as she raised her wrist to her teeth, tearing away at the Velcro that secured her gloves. It was reckless and almost seductive in the messy kind of way.

"Yeah, well." Beca panted, pulling her own glove off without unlacing it. The air felt cool against her fingers as she stretched them out. "I had to get a read on you."

"A read on me?" Chloe cocked a perfect brow. "Is this another art thing?"

"Maybe." Beca shrugged her shoulders, instantly regretting it as a sharp ache pressed against her spine. She flinched, lungs pulling in a quick breath. Averting her gaze as Chloe cocked her head to the side.

"I'm guessing some ice would be in order?" Chloe ignored the eye roll that she received in response. Beca was never one to admit her pain, or revel in it. She almost cursed her features for betraying her as they scrunched up in pain. "I think one half of our audience could help you out with that."

"I don't see how you do this all the time." She finally admitted, bringing her ungloved hand back up to her adjacent shoulder, digging her fingers into her sore muscles.

"Like I said, Beca" Chloe smirked, "It takes patience and precision."


	6. Chapter 6

**[A/N: I wish I had the time, and most importantly, the comfort to be more in depth with this. But I don't, and I'm sorry]**

 **Her muscles were** raw, body protesting with every slight movement that her mind allowed. Beca Mitchell hadn't been behind a sword for months, maybe even years. Her main focus was on the thinly groomed brush that she would hold between her grasp, drawing edged lines on a canvas. She knew how to fight, that much was clear the moment she saw the spark in Chloe's eyes. She just didn't wish to.

It took every ounce of strength that she possessed to lower her naked body into the scalding water. It was tinted pink- it's color matte from whatever soap the Beale's kept along the bathroom shelves. The tub was grandeur in itself; a large ivory basin held up by copper legs that look as if they were carved for a griffin himself. It was foreign to Beca but nice against her writhing pain.

She breathed in against the floral wetness that filled her lungs, letting out an involuntary moan as her body melted into the creamy water. There was a stark contrast between the icy air and the steam coated pool of moisture.

Beca sunk further into the depths of the water, letting her neck rest against the edge of the tub, her mind rushing back to the rushed washing she used to pull herself into when she was at sea. When she was in the depths of Mexico. It was always with tinted water and a dingy cloth. It did the job- however. She didn't' need the extravagance, though it was greatly appreciated.

She heard the door creak, a loud groan that shattered the silence. Beca was quick to push her knee out, engulfing it completely in the murky color before she inhaled enough to feel a sharp knife in her throat. Chloe leaned against the expertly painted frame, her hair a bit damp from her own bath. Her eyes were a dark sapphire, darker than Beca had allowed herself to notice. The water louder than it had ever been.

"Chloe," She breathed, "Maybe it's better if you weren't here."

Beca was lying to herself, veins cold with each word. She ached for the woman who stood a few feet away. Yearned for her touch, that very feeling still everlasting from where the saber pushed near her skin. Burned into the side of her mind. Regardless, she shifted with discomfort- discomfort at the heat steadily growing between her thighs.

Chloe Beale was forbidden. An apple that hung low from the branches of a tree in Eden. She had distracted herself with her ego, and with her willingness to do her job for Garrett. Even with the pure sport of sword fighting. But right now; right when a woman rested in a black silk robe, she almost couldn't divert.

"nonsense." The woman stepped closer, pushing the door shut behind her. "Nothing is better without me."

Beca scoffed loudly, a few strands of fawn hair fell from a loose bun into her stare. She grew comfortable enough to pull her arms along the side of the tub, letting the cold air hit her skin. Chloe reaching to her side as she pulled a small wooden stool from a vanity across the tiled floor. It made an ungodly sound- but neither woman seemed bothered, too focused on movements.

Chloe smelled of citrus, her perfectly sculpted features catching the candlelight that rested near the edge of the white painted sill. The glass was fogged up, the orange and yellow casting dark shadows against the room. It made Beca stare, made her keep her attention roughly on the near stranger.

"Aubrey is quite convinced that I am a bad influence on you." She said, her voice threatening to crack.

"mm," Chloe hummed, reaching over the bath water. Beca tensed as Chloe's fingers wrapped around a cleaned cloth. "Aubrey is convinced that everyone is a bad influence on me."

She dipped her fingers into the water, so close to Beca's torrid skin. The fabric grew heavy, the water ringing out as it disturbed the calm surface. "Something tells me you're the bad influence, Chloe."

The older woman didn't speak, but she nodded, dipping her chin as she gently ran her fingers up the side of Beca's arm. It sent electrifying chills against her spine. The warmth of the cloth and rose scent of the soap pulled into her lungs like the very silk that Chloe wore. "You can tell that I am a very forward woman, Beca."

All she could do was gulp, loudly.

The water was thick as it ran over her bare skin, creating a contrast as Chloe began to run her fingers teasingly up her arm. Beca let out a deep groan, pulling her head back as she blinked against the sensation. It was mind-numbingly beautiful.

"Your husband." Beca sighed.

"My husband is off in Barbados fucking his side piece, Miss Mitchell." Chloe gave her arm a bit of a squeeze. Her words dripped like icy venom.

Beca clenched her jaw, melting into the touch that rocked her body. Every ounce of common sense was telling her to pull away from the woman's touch- but just like a sweet and poison-filled song of a Siren, Chloe had drawn her in. The young painter was never one for infidelity, never one to cave into the feelings that were buried deep down inside her mind until she burst into flames herself.

She had slept with one woman in vain before this, one woman who left a sour memory. She was alluring but tasted of cigarettes. Something to do out of anger instead of passion. Her husband walked into the room the next morning, summer air filling the sculpted frame of two naked souls entangled in sheets. It wasn't worth the black eye, and certainly not worth the skills she would have learned if she hadn't fucked her instructors' much too young wife.

Now, seemed different. Her body ached for Chloe's touch, the water close to boiling at the heat the rose from her core. Beca's fingers twitched under the cloudy substance, aching to move towards her center- wishing Chloe would stop dragging the cold cloth up and down her irritated skin in a rhythmic manner.

The redhead had stopped, she had dared to move from one shoulder to the other, not minding much that her elbow disrobed the water as the cloth dragged against the surface area of Beca's chest. Teasing, almost testing her in a way as her breath caught in her throat almost violently.

"Beca Mitchell, I can't have you." Chloe continued chastely "It's forbidden."

"Is that the only reason you want me?"

Beca's voice was lazy. Part of her didn't pay much stock to the fact that she was the apple hanging too high in the oak tree to reach. The one that had a snake twirling around the branch and rearing it's ugly fangs. She just didn't want to lose Chloe's touch- didn't' want to sink into the water with an unsatisfied discomfort between her legs. Forbidden or not. Used or not. It didn't' matter.

"I need to feel you," Chloe husked, not answering the question. Her touch was gentle as she moved her fingers from the cloth, goosebumps raising against Beca's skin as Chloe's thumb gracefully hovered over her flushed cheeks. "Are you keen to that idea?"

 _Is she keen_ to _that?_ Beca's thoughts almost turned bitter at that, but she leaned involuntarily into the woman's touch. She hummed quietly, intoxicated by the soapy scent in her lungs and throat. "Yes." Her voice was a low whisper.

Beca moaned a little as Chloe brought her lips down on her own, the older woman seemingly didn't' care of the warm water that seeped through her slowly drooping cover-up. The kiss was hungry and sloppy and passionate. She lifted her hands from the water, tangling nails into silky copper locks. She wanted to feel every inch of Chloe's naked body against hers- the thought dizzying.

She almost whimpered out of the loss of contact as Chloe pulled away. The older woman quickly undid her silken robe, letting the blacked shined material drop to the tiled floor like kingsnake crawling into the shadows. She was stunning-is- indescribable to artists alike.

Chloe Beale had a tattoo. One that Beca had failed to notice the first time the woman stripped herself clean in front of her. The ink stretched under her right set of ribs. It was a bird, a crow with shined feathers and beady little eyes that reminded Beca of a human. It was too pain filled and resentful to not carry emotion in it's painted picture.

Beca kept her stare trained on the water, watching the pink waves as Chloe all but mounted her in the tub. It had chilled after all this time, the woman's warmth thick and dominating as she straddled her. Her heart was in her throat, her fingers steadying Chloe's movements as nails dug into her perfectly pale sides.

"Te necesito, Chloe."

"la paciencia, Beca" She purred, the vibration shaking against Beca's chest. "la paciencia."


	7. Chapter 7

**She was cold** , the water stealing heat from every inch of her body. A throbbing ache filled the small of her back. The wave took everything that it did not need- the blush color having separated hours ago. There was a thicker layer that left a colored ring against the tub. The other was a distilled and sickening white.

Beca drew in a lead breath, shifting her arm. A sharp pain shot up her spine. She had fallen asleep, the once warm water doing nothing to quell the rough chill that now took permanence in her entirety. Her fingers flexing dumbly in front of her face as she noticed how waterlogged she actually was.

A slick and sticky fever was housed between her thighs. She was alone but cleared her throat out of discomfort. Every ounce of her didn't' want to be in the extravagant bathtub with the gold painted handles and the porcelain edges. She lifted herself up, the midnight air hotter than the cool water that was dripping away from her naked form.

She reached blindly for a towel, letting the soft material quell the rising goosebumps as she scolded herself mentally, cheeks flushed. Her mind rushed, rushed with the thoughts of the girl she had blindly had a wet dream about. It wasn't something that she ever experienced. Beca Mitchell was used to getting the girl, used to charming her despite the feeling of not even putting an effort into the relationships that had been thrown at her.

There was no reason to have dreams about intimacy when all she needed to do was flash a smile at the local pub and run a tantalizing hand through her hair. But Chloe was different- a girl that she pushed to the back of her subconscious until it bubbled up in fantasies of the older woman snaking into her bathroom and dipping a perfectly manicured hand beneath the water.

Beca needed a drink and judging by the way the night had turned to a charcoal darkness soaked through the white cracks of the window sill it had to be strong. She stalked into the bedroom, shivering at the drop in temperature before she threw on a loose white shirt. It was almost translucent, outlining the curves and dips of her body as she struggled into some pants- legs still wet and filmy from the amount of soap that layered the tub.

She padded into the kitchen. It was quiet. She opted not to flip on the larger lights in the house, as if not to disturb anyone from the outside looking in. Her thoughts wandered to the killers she was convinced hid in the muck and grime that backed the property. She scolded herself as she hit the third button in, ignoring the hot scent that filled her lungs. - illuminating a deep golden color against the entire edge of the bar. Beca's breath caught.

Chloe.

The woman was hunched over a wine glass, the frothy crimson liquid had left a sad mark where it had been cascaded over crystal. There was a half-emptied emerald bottle sitting open next to her. The heat of the night was enough to create a thick condensation along it's plated edge. The crickets were almost deafening, the small artist not noticing the patio doors propped with a large plank of wood.

Her eyes were red and puffy, her stance shooting up almost instantly as she ran her icy eyes over the length of the kitchen to meet Beca's dusky stare.

"Did I wake you?" was all she said, not acknowledging the cold streaks against her flushed complexion.

Beca softened. Chloe had been crying. "No, not at all."

She nodded, lifting her chin towards the empty bar seat that was to her left. It cut around the corner of the table. Beca wanted to grab a whiskey and head to sleep herself, convinced that the alcohol would lull her into a dreamless state. That's exactly what she wanted, something that was dreamless and dull, and brought her into the next morning without cause for a cold shower.

Instead, she lowered herself into the chair, wincing a bit. The fencing had taken a toll on her body, one that she wanted to cool off with a hot bath, and some of that aromatic soap that was at her disposal. But it had turned into a fitful sleep that quirked her spine even more. It had done more harm than good.

Chloe reached above her head, pulling another glass from the ceiling wrack that carried a few cups, some cookware, even a large mixing bowl that swung in the summer air. She poured about half a glass, Beca watching the waves of liquid, her mouth began to water. She wasn't a wine girl. But she was being out of character tonight, it seemed.

"tener pesadillas, Beca?"

Beca only hummed as she gulped down a long swig of the bitter liquid, fighting the need to extinguish the burning in her throat. "Of sorts."

Chloe let her thoughts mull over for a moment. It was as if she wanted to pry as if she wanted to dig past the walls that the young artist had built up around her psyche. Instead, she lilted her head to the side and stared down at the settled wine in her glass.

The brunette watched her carefully. It was one part was curiosity, the other part vulnerability. Chloe looked angelic when she cried, when she did anything, for that matter. Her hands were folded under her chin, resting above them like a bird on a perch. Beca eventually swallowed the fine taste in her mouth.

"Have you ever lain with another in swaggering contempt?" Chloe spoke before Beca could make small talk. Her stare settled like a sharp blade. She was the alpha in this conversation, the younger of the two wanting to cower behind her intense gaze.

"Once."

"Why?"

She stalled at the question. Why had she? The man that was quick with a brush had married a woman far too young for him. It gave her a justification for slipping under thousand thread-count sheets and dropping her hand between the legs of a Spanish vixen that gave her more than enough reason to learn the language by heart.

"I was frustrated." Beca pulled the glass to her lips, not yet taking a sip. "And so was she, I presume."

Chloe lifted a brow at the statement, nodding in solidarity, maybe. Beca wasn't quite sure. In either situation, it was something they had in common. If what Aubrey had said, was in fact, correct. Then every single painter that Garrett Beale brought into his home corrupted it with each fallen night. Probably in his own bed, with his pillows, and his extravagant bedding. They were sure to be in his bathroom the next morning using soap that he paid for.

"Garret has given me everything that I could ever want." She said, "I mean- God, look at this place. People can only dream of living here, and only speculate about what it's like to live with a man who has such a handle on trade." Chloe swallowed thickly. "Yet, I am an object of his desires and nothing more."

Beca watched in silence as Chloe let tears drip against flushed cheeks unceasingly. Even if she could speak, could subdue the pain that the woman felt, she wouldn't. It was raw, and something told her that Chloe needed to feel it, needed to come to terms with the reason she was drowning her sorrows in a bottle of Clos Vougeot.

She hated the bile that rose in her throat. Beca didn't' concede with the idea of laying with another when in a binding relationship. She had never even considered forming one herself. She had never fallen hard enough to consult the legal system that was set in place. She wanted to spring forward and wrap her arms around Chloe- to make her feel better. But she thought it ill-advised.

"He's always away on business," Chloe said, placing her glass back down on the surface. "But that is no excuse for me to sleep with every single man- person, that presents themselves into my chambers."

"Is that why you dragged me in there when we first met?"

Beca flushed, the question had just slipped past her lips without much thought. She would never be so blunt with a woman who captured her attention this much. She admired Chloe, the girl tearing herself down with every passing second. She paled herself.

"You must forgive my previous actions." Chloe murmured. "But I suppose. I thought I could get it over with. Move on to the next, but you have proven to contest my every calculation."

The brunette barked out a laugh, shaking her head. It was all about the art for her, it always had been. But while Chloe Beale was overcoming her libido, Beca Mitchell was doing the same. She wanted nothing more than to slip under those silk sheets and press her lips to Chloe's pulse point. Nipping and sucking until both of them would be writhing messes. Instead, she was content with painting the girl.

"Chloe," Beca leaned in close, "I'm not leaving anytime soon. I was given a job to do, and I intend to do it well. Art is something that I am good at, with no reserves." She paused, trying to gauge a reaction. There was none. "You are a very attractive woman. A distraction, if you will."

"How can I be a distraction if I am the object of your art?" She lifted a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"Because," Beca gave a subtle shrug. "The fact that Garrett Beale gives you everything you could possibly want leaves nothing for me to provide. And I can't very well paint if I can't figure out what is missing."

Chloe looked puzzled. The girl in front of her was an enigma, one minute a confident woman with broad shoulders and a smirk that could shatter earth. The next she was reduced to a bumbling and awkward mess that hat rosy cheeks and a pension for mixing her sentences. It was endearing, really. Yet frustrating.

"I tend to exaggerate Miss Mitchell." Chloe picked up her glass once more. "Maybe he doesn't give me _everything_."


	8. Chapter 8

**Her skin was** hot, buzzing as the heavy air pressed against every inch of her body. It seemed to invade her clothes, worming its way into her sense of being. The young painter needed to clear her mind from the lavish Beale house. It's limestone brick and royal red aura was too heavy and suffocating.

Just a few months ago she had been in South Carolina. Anderson to be exact. It was a small town with nothing more than a main street lined with brick shops. The bricks were weathered, even though they had just been laid a few years before. The road had no paving and the air carried the same heat that it did now; one that was so overbearing that Beca wanted to tear out of her own skin and escape the house that only operated under slowly spinning fans. They did nothing but push the milky heat around.

Sweat was beading against her rising chest each time she took a hurried step. Her shoes were loud against the drive, one that looked a lot smaller when she took the carriage to the large mahogany doors no more than a week ago. Again, her movements cut through the air.

She had talked late into the night with the lady of the house. Her skin felt tight and tired. Chloe downing one glass of wine after another without showing any type of intoxication. Beca herself nursed a drink, spinning it around the glass easily as it left a film on the glass. She didn't' have an interest in keeping up with Chloe, she knew she couldn't. Instead, she listened as the woman finally lulled her own conversation into silence and made an excuse about needing to get to sleep. The both of them knew soundly that neither would sleep.

Beca hadn't. Instead, she slipped out of the front door and down the long steps before the rest of the estate had a chance to stir. She needed a walk, a clear mind to get objective about a piece of art that was meant to adorn the empty place above the mantel. A place that had a faded frame where the sun had washed too close to a color slathered against the drywall. A color that Beca still believed was all wrong for the room.

Her sketchbook was tucked under her arm, the leather was uncomfortably close to exposed skin, her eyes scanning across the edge of the property as she glanced at the large oak that rested near a brick fence. It must have taken ages to design and establish the perimeter, but she was grateful to see the bought of shade. It gave her a good view of the house, and she could feel the sweet breeze of the sea the second she lowered herself down against the rough bark.

She didn't pull from her sketchbook right away; each drawing had its own memory that she would rather crumple up and throw to the side. But her art was an expression of progress more than it was a tell-tale loop into the past. The memories she could replace with new ones, the pencil strokes that were pressed into parchment were another story.

The young painter leaned her head against the tree, not as stifled as she once was in the hot tropical sun. Her fingers played with the edge of the paper, as her other hand ran rhythmically against the curved edge of the charcoal instrument she used to sketch. Her mind was drifting, and her eyes were drooping.

 _"Now I'm quite positive that you're stalking me, Miss Mitchell." The statement had a bite to it. Of course, it did, she was barely twenty. There was no reason to insinuate knowledge or wealth by adding a prefix to her name as the woman did._

 _"You wouldn't' be here if you didn't' want to be found, Maria." She mumbled into her drink. The artist could smell the liquor as it burned a neat hole into her throat. She refused to look up at the girl, refused the acknowledge the heat the pulled at her spine. `_

 _She was dark and classical compared to the women she grew up around. They were soft in their features and carried around an innocence that was never meant to be broken. They wore their Sunday best and powdered their cheeks until they were red in eternal youth. Maria didn't care much for makeup- she carried natural beauty that swam in chocolate brown eyes._

 _Beca felt a heat apply to her own expression as she flashed her stare back towards the bar's counter. It was scratched but it was better than looking at Maria; That wasn't entirely true, she found_ company _quite easily in the wife of her mentor. They had shared a few midnight conversations over creamy wine._

 _A few nights ago, Beca had been wondering the halls. She had no idea what she was looking for, a solace in the moonlight. A time where she didn't fall into the edged buzzing and sting against the right side of her face where Christian had struck her one too many times._

 _Instead, she stumbled upon Maria, trying to cool herself in the property bathhouse. She had no shame under the pale casting of the moon. Her body curved against the terra cotta tile, legs spread as the water trickled close to her skin. She noticed Beca quickly, not pulling to cover herself as her naked body writhed against her own touch. Instead, she almost beaconed to the young painter as if she needed assistance._

 _"I'm sorry if I was too forward the other night."_

 _Beca swallowed painfully loud. She turned in her chair and took in how much cherry blossom pricked against the air. "Don't fret about it, Maria. Cosas pasan. You must forgive me for staring."_

 _"Cosas Pasan" She mirrored, grasping onto the glass that was still in Beca's hand. Her touch was warm and electrifying. "I had to satisfy myself considering Christian gets so wrapped up in his moods sometimes."_

 _"That's nice,"_

 _Maria tilted her head back and downed the rest of the whiskey in one sharp swallow. She let the glass fall to the counter with little more than a clink as she leaned against the counter. Everything else seemed to silence itself. The blare of Latin music almost as strong as the primal scent of sex that her instructor's wife carried._

 _"Very," She purred._

 _Her breath was hot against Beca's neck, leaning in cleanly as she touched her lips behind the woman's earlobe. She froze, clenching her eyes shut as she breathed in. A light moan escaped her lips, pressing into the woman who now wrapped perfectly painted hands around her midsection._

 _"I used to be his muse, but he paints a new infatuation now. The city, the nightlife." She sighed against the back of Beca's neck, running the side of her thumb close to the hemline of her pants. "Almost like I'm not good enough for him. Could you paint me?"_

 _The question almost didn't' register against her mind. She made a sound that was a mix between a yes and a primal grunt of approval. She wasn't sure she could even form coherent thoughts right now much less push a horse-tailed brush against a stretched canvas._

 _"Tenía_ _pocas dudas." Her voice was raspy and her touch heavy "You know where to find me, little one."_


End file.
